


Rewrite (of 'Thorns')

by Dawn1000



Category: History RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Reincarnation, Renaissance Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23402350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn1000/pseuds/Dawn1000
Summary: When a young woman is reborn into Tudor Era England, she must battle in her second father's ruthless court with tooth and nail to survive. But with fate's cruel nature and the fickleness of those around her, the stakes are high, and she is racing against time to save the ones she loves. Only one thing is certain- history as she knows it is changed forever. But is that good, or bad?
Relationships: pairings undecided - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: So now that school has been cancelled because of the Corona Virus, I have more free time on my hands. I'll write as much as I can using that time, but when I get my muse, I get my muse. No promises on an update schedule yet. And yes- this is the rewrite of 'Thorns'** _

* * *

On February 18, 1516, Henry, King of England prays fervently before a cross, his favorite, Charles Brandon, beside him. He begs God to give him and his wife a living child, better yet a boy, an heir to continue his legacy. He kneels there, with his forehead pressed against the tile floor, until his knees grow numb and he can't feel his face. The cold is bitter, even inside the chapel, and his fists clench.

Seven years. That's how long it's been since he and Catherine were wed. That's how long he's gone without a living child. The image of his little Prince Hal slips into his mind and his throat tightens. His perfect boy, his heir. Gone. And only more miscarriages and still births after that.

Catherine is still capable, he reminds himself. Thirty is not so old. And he is only five- and- twenty; there is time for more children. _Please,_ he thinks, _please. A living child. That is all I need._

Perhaps God hears him in this moment, perhaps it is simply coincidence. All Henry knows it that as soon as the thought flashes across his conscience, a page bursts through the doors. Henry stands, and Charles lifts his head. The page kneels before the king, gasping for air.

"Well, man, what is it?" Henry demands.

"Her Grace has delivered two healthy girls, sire."

The new father stares for a moment, befuddled. Then he gets excited. Girls are not boys, not sons, but two healthy children and _twins at that_ prove his and Catherine's fertility. "Good man," he laughs and slaps him across the back. Then Henry's racing to his wife's apartments, Charles hot on his heels.

"Your Grace," a midwife argues feebly once he gets there, "The queen is in confinement. You should not enter."

Henry scowls at her, annoyed, and she shrinks against the wall. Charles laughs. "Move, woman, before I make you," the king demands, and then he leaves her and his best friend and heads inside. He freezes at the sight that greets him. His lovely wife, the mother of his children- _twins,_ he relishes again- is resting on her bed. Multiple pillows support her, and she cradles one tiny creature in her arms while another rests in the bassinet beside her. She looks up when she hears the door swing open.

Catherine's strawberry-blonde hair is strewn all across her shoulders and forehead. Her skin is pale, and there are bags and stress lines around her eyes, but to Henry, this is the most beautiful she's ever been (he ignores the way she looked after she delivered their precious, short- lived son).

"Your Grace," she murmurs, "Here are your daughters."

His children. It's still almost unreal to Henry. They're alive and well and _healthy,_ daughters of his body, daughters of his house. He walks over to her bedside and lifts the girl in the bassinet up into his own arms.

"That's the elder one," Catherine says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I figured Your Grace would want to pick her up yourself."

Henry observes the tuft of auburn hair upon her head- _his_ hair- and stares into the light blue eyes- _his_ eyes- peering back at him and smiles. "She is perfect," he says, and the baby gurgles happily.

"What do you want to name them?" Catherine inquires, and he frowns. Shifting closer to her, he sets his eyes upon his other daughter and considers both of the infants.

"Mary for the younger one," he decides, "After the Virgin herself." Catherine gives a murmur of approval. "Margaret for the elder." His wife's head snaps up and her eyes are wide when they meet his own.

"My love?" she says hesitantly, and Henry knows why. Margaret is his damnable sister's name- that bitch who betrayed England to the Scots. He scowls at the very reminder of her.

"For my grandmother," he insists strongly. "For the woman who placed my lord father on the throne and helped to found the Tudor dynasty. May our daughter have her strength and determination." The _'and hopefully nothing else'_ goes unsaid. Henry's wife considers him for a moment. Then her eyes flick back to their children. He can see the wheels turning in her mind. Her lips thin and her head cocks to the side ever so slightly. Then she exhales slowly and a warm smile works its way onto her face.

"Margaret and Mary," she laughs, "I like the sound of that."

Everything is silent for a brief moment, and then Margaret Tudor, eldest child of Henry of England, Eighth of his name, and Catherine of Aragon, youngest daughter of the Catholic Monarchs, begins to scream.


	2. Chapter 2

In the early months following Margaret's birth, she is torn in two. On one hand, she is an infant. Only three moons old with her father's hair and eyes and her mother's warm smile. She has never known pain nor death nor suffering. She does not know what love is- she is not even aware of the world going on around her. All she knows is discomfort and how to cry, and that there should be another body curled up next to her at all times.

But deep within this royal child who should have never been, a woman sleeps. A woman who has known what it is like to stress, who has felt heart break and loss and pain, who knows what it feels like to have a knife slide between her ribs and _twist._ A woman who has lived twenty long years, who was seen friends and family come and go.

This woman sleeps, deep within the recluse of the infant's mind, a prisoner of her own new body, trapped with a soul that is fracturing day by day. But she is waking, slowly, slowly, and with each passing moment, her host grows more and more discontent.

The physicians, wary after the New Year's Prince, Hal, take immediate notice. They hear her whimpering and see the sheen of sweat upon her brow, and take immediate action. They separate her from her twin and alert the king and queen whilst they do what they can- they mix poppy for her pain and dab wet cloth along her burning forehead, drizzle tonics and elixirs from Rome down her tiny throat.

Nothing works.

The king rages, drinking his sorrows away and punching at the wall until his knuckles are raw and bleeding. He looks into the physicians' eyes, each and every one of them, and snarls out that if the Princess Margaret should die, their heads will be the next to roll.

The queen rushes to the chapel as soon as she hears the news, her ladies in waiting and maids of honor in tow. She stays by the cross and kneels in prayer, drinking little and eating less as she begs for her daughter's life. The Heavenly Father has already called upon her unborn children, He has already taken her beautiful baby boy from her. Surely He will not do the same to Margaret as well?

The Princess Mary cannot be comforted as her twin struggles for her life. She wails constantly, keeping servants up deep into the night, and not even her wet nurse's sweet songs can soothe her. It's almost as if she knows that something is amiss- that something deeply, deeply wrong is occurring. Whatever the reason behind her shift in demeanor, it only serves to heighten the tension around court.

In the coming days, everyone will hold their breath and hope the little princess survives- for her sake and the royal family's as well as their own- for if a second Tudor child dies in the cradle, England will become a very dark place.

* * *

In the end, it is not the physicians' backwards medicine nor the prayers of her people that save Margaret, it is herself. The infant part of her, who would have been unable to withstand the conflict, flickers painfully, and the waking adult leaps at her chance. Two warring souls merge, splintering and breaking and clawing at one another. For a moment, there is only white- hot pain. Then, there is peace.

The Princess Margaret's cheeks lose their feverish flush. The whimpers she lets out gradually lessen. Her shaking subsides. After a few days, it becomes apparent that she will survive. The king laughs heartily, relief evident upon his face, and orders for bonfires to be lit and for every man in London to have free ale. The queen, although weakened by her fasting, finds enough strength within herself to cry out in jubilation and praise God as tears wet her cheeks.

The royal children are reunited and all seems well. But for Margaret, who now remembers two lives, her very existence has been turned upside down. And everything you have read in the history books, dear reader, everything you think you know, forget it now. For the world will never be the same.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell it's been a while since I updated this fic. Life kinda just got ahead of me, with the virus and online classes and all. And my own laziness too, I guess. Sorry 'bout that, guys. I make no promises, but I'm aiming for a longer chapter next time that'll hopefully come quicker than this one.

God is laughing at her. Alejandra doesn't know if it's the Christian one, or the Jewish one, or the Muslim one- it could be Zeus or Odin for all she cares- but she knows He's having a hell of a time right now. She twists in her bassinet, stares up at the ceiling, still reeling from her revelation, and curses her luck.

She'd spent her last life being utterly unremarkable. She was plain, not ugly not pretty, and had gotten decent grades. She'd had a mom and a dad and a baby brother who'd gotten on her last nerve, but she'd adored them all. She hadn't hurt anybody, not really, just enjoyed trolling interned forums from time to time and browsing the DarkHumorAndMemes subreddit.

_I swear to God, if my sense of humor is what landed me in this hellhole-_

Alejandra doesn't really have any memories of the time before she became aware of her... predicament, but she's been here long enough now to know she's not in the Twenty-First Century anymore. She thinks it's been about a month since she woke up (is that the way to put it?) and she can see it everywhere, from the way her caretakers dress to the lack of electricity to the stilted speech patterns of the people around her.

Oh, and she's a princess.

The first time her wet-nurse addressed her as 'Your Highness', Alejandra had nearly had a heart attack. Fury and denial had surged through her, along with a healthy dose of terror, and she'd cried until her lungs gave out. It had seemed to give everyone quite the scare, because for the next week or so, physicians checked in on her and Twin steadily.

Twin.

That's another thing Alejandra is going to have to get used to. Not a big brother or sister, not a little one either, but a twin. They'd shared a womb for nine months, came into the world screaming together, and they spend all of their time side by side as well.

Seriously.

There's not a day that passes when Twin doesn't slobber all over her. Despite the disgusting saliva that coats Alejandra's body when Twin decides to roll over to her, she has to admit that her new sister is cute. She's got a head of fluffy auburn hair auburn hair that's really just now starting to grow in and wide blue eyes. Twin's cheeks are getting chubby now as well, and her giggles could make an ice-hearted mercenary melt.

Alejandra doesn't like children, never has, even when she was one herself, but spending a month in close proximity with someone non-stop will make you either develop a fondness for them, or make you homicidal.

In this case, it seems to be the former.

Alejandra doesn't know what exact era she's in. She doesn't know if she's even in her own world. What she _does_ understand is that she's royalty- _female royalty_ \- in a medieval-esque time period.

And that probably means she's fucked.

* * *

It's late when the nursery door opens and a figure steps in. Alejandra raises her head, her heart rate quick, pulsing so wildly she swears she can hear it.

 _Thump, thump, thump,_ it goes as her mind races.

The door swings shut gently, a tiny _click_ sounding through the air.

What reason could someone possibly have for visiting so late at night? And why would they be so careful?

 _Assassin_ is the first thing that comes to mind and the world freezes. Alejandra can't breath. What does she do? She can't run, can't beg for her life, and the figure is coming closer now, looming, looming, and-

_Oh._

It's just the Queen.

Alejandra hesitates to call her Mom; she already has one- _had one_ , a treacherous corner of her mind reminds- and she doesn't need another. But as the orange and yellow candlelight dances across her face, there is no mistaking the warmth of her features and the love in her eyes. The Queen sets her candle down against a table and peers over the slope of the bassinet to gaze upon Twin and Alejandra. Alejandra blinks up at her, light blue eyes meeting deeper ones, and the next thing she knows, she's being picked up gently.

"My sweet Margaret," the Queen murmurs, "My little princess. I did not think you would be awake." She rocks Alejandra lightly, cradles her against her chest, and Alejandra has to admit that even if she doesn't appreciate being treated like a baby, this is... nice. She's always been one for physical affection, craved physical contact more than the average person, and this woman's embrace is like a warm blanket on a winter night. Lulling and comforting and _right_. "You will make a great ruler some day," the Queen says, kissing the top of her head, "You will do your father and myself proud. You have the blood of the Catholic Monarchs running through your veins, the blood of Isabella and Ferdinand! You are destined for greatness!" Her tone is vehement, fierce as her monologue ends.

Alejandra freezes.

Oh.

Oh no.

This is bad.

This is _very_ bad.

She might not have lived long enough to graduate college and get her degree in history, but she damn well knows who the Catholic Monarchs are.

So.

The Queen is either Joanna, Maria, or Catherine.

Alejandra is the offspring of either the woman remembered throughout history as 'The Mad', the woman who died before her time as a result of her last pregnancy, or the woman who was famously set aside in one of the biggest religious rifts in the history of Christianity. And if it's the last one, she's also the child of a blood thirsty tyrant the sister of one Bloody Mary.

On top of that, she's living during the Renaissance period.

As a woman.

With no medicine for childbirth and little for illness.

Where bloodletting is still considered legitimate.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

.

.

.

(Well, here's to hoping it's Maria?)


	4. Chapter 4

Over the course of the next day, Alejandra scrutinizes everything around her. She pays attention to the servants' clothing, tries to listen in on their conversations, wails loudly in the hopes that one of her new parents will give her the time of day and offer some more information.

Her crying only seems to set her staff on edge. They shoot her worried looks through dark, hooded eyes, and frequently check her for fevers. It's reasonable, considering this is during the Renaissance and children have a ridiculously high death rate, but Alejandra's ire only increases as they deny her what she wants. She hasn't tried to talk, doesn't even know if she _can_ yet, and she's not willing to give it a go for at least another half year. She doesn't want to be killed because the priests mistake her for some kind of demon-baby, after all.

Language should have been her first clue as to where she is, but it's not. If she's in England, people should be speaking Early Modern English, which she hasn't heard. If she's in Portugal, they should be speaking Portuguese. If she's in Spain, they should be speaking Spanish. Alejandra's mother was from the Dominican Republic, so she's grown up speaking Spanish. Is it possible she's just mistaking it for English because of her infant mind? No, that wouldn't make sense either- Spanish from the 16th century still shouldn't translate as its 21st counterpart.

_This doesn't make any sense._

Alejandra is cut out of her thoughts as a shadow looms over the bassinet. She blinks up. Before her stands a tall, broad-shouldered man. He has wavy auburn hair and light blue eyes and a smile full of dimples. He might have visited her before, during her 'illness', but she can't remember it if he did.

"Sweet child," the man says, "How it gladdens me to see you well." There is a softness in his eyes, a warmth, that makes Alejandra pause. That's the same affection she's seen in the Queen's eyes. Now, she hasn't met her new sperm-donor, he hasn't dropped by to visit, but then again, he is a king, so it stands to make sense he would be careful before he stopped by.

_Could this be him?_

Alejandra does her best to give him a warm smile. She giggles up at him, extends her arms as much as she can, and watches his face carefully for his reaction.

_If he **is** the King, there's no damage done in sucking up early._

The man practically melts. He reaches out as if to pick her up before hesitating. Instead, he lets his finger drift right above her face. She reaches up for it and he laughs.

"What an excitable little thing you are," he murmurs, "Not like our little Mary." His head tilts to look at Twin, who's sleeping in the corner.

Alejandra freezes.

Mary, that's Twin's name.

Maria of Aragon didn't have a daughter named Mary.

Joanna and Catherine both did.

So, Mary of Hungary, or Mary I? That's the million-dollar question.

A divided Spain, or an England with a ruling dynasty still in its infancy?

This... is not good. The most peaceful probability of being Maria of Aragon's daughter has just been shot straight to hell, and Alejandra doesn't know how to feel about it. The shock is setting in.

Her breathing begins to quicken. Her pulse is rapid beneath her skin.

"Hggh, hggh," she pants for breath. The man's features color with concern.

"Margaret," he begins, voice tinged with panic, "Margaret, are you alright?"

What a stupid question to ask. As if a _baby_ would be able to answer.

The last thing she knows is something sticky spreading across her face before everything goes dark.

* * *

When Henry visits his daughters for the first time since Margaret fell ill, he doesn't expect everything to go smoothly. He has avoided them for nigh a month after all, and he isn't experienced in entertaining children. Nevertheless, Charles convinced him to just go and look at them, at least.

Whatever his expectations were, his eldest wheezing before vomiting all over herself had not been one of them.

He stares at Margaret for a moment, stunned, as her chest rises and falls shallowly, her eyes screwed shut.

_No, no! Not again! I thought she had gotten better!  
_

Before Henry knows it, he's bounding across the room, yelling for the physicians.

"Girl," he roars, pointing to a nearby servant, "Get the physicians, do you hear me? GET THEM!"

She leaps to her feet on shaky limbs and races away.

Henry turns back to the bassinet, where Margaret is unconscious and Mary blinks, woken by his shouting. He picks up his youngest, cradles her to his chest. He avoids touching her sister, flinching away as he catches a whiff of the vomit. Even now, the evidence of illness unnerves him. He makes his way back to the other side of the room, pacing furiously. Mary squirms in his arms and he stops. Still, she begins to scream, almost as if sensing his agitation.

The wait for the physicians is torture. There's only Henry and his daughters, the room filled by one's shrill screams and the other's labored breathing.

After what seems like hours, they arrive, bursting through the doors with chests and satchels and journals.

"Your Grace," one of the servants curtsies, extending her arms. Henry is still for a moment before remembering he's holding onto Mary. He passes her off gratefully.

"Has the Queen been informed?" he demands as one of the physicians makes his way towards him. The man shakes his head and Henry curses. He, selfishly, did not want to have to be the one to tell her about their daughter's relapse.

_Oh, God, Catherine._

Their Margaret has survived longer than their Hal did, but if they lose her as they did him, will his wife be able to take it? Will _he_?

Henry shakes his head.

_Enough of this. Margaret is a Tudor, and she has survived this long. She will endure. She **must.**_

With grim thoughts hanging at the back of his mind, the King of England exits his daughters' chamber and races to their mother.

* * *

Catherine is sewing with her ladies when Henry arrives at her apartments. She smiles warmly as he enters, but the look fades when she sees his expression.

"Your Grace," she rises swiftly, "Has something happened?"

"Margaret," he swallows hard, "She's taken ill again."

The Queen of England stumbles, as if struck, and sinks back into her chair. Her lips part in a silent scream as she clutches the cross which hangs around her neck.

"Leave!" Henry dismisses her ladies harshly. They send worried looks at their mistresses but do as they're told. Henry reaches for his wife and takes her in his arms. He runs a hand through her hair as she sobs into his chest, shoulders shuddering, tears soaking his doublet, and closes his eyes. Part of him is tempted to whisper words of encouragement, promises that their child will recover, but then he remembers Hal and-

His grip on her tightens.

They stay like that for God knows how long, curled up together, taking solace in the warm body next to them, until they are disturbed by a knock at the door. Henry stands swiftly and straightens out his clothing as Catherine fixes her hair and wipes at her eyes.

"Enter," he calls.

The door swings open and the head physician, Balthasar Guersye, bows.

"Your Graces," he murmurs.

"None of that," Henry snaps, "How fairs our daughter?"

Balthasar hesitates, and Catherine looks woozy again. Henry reaches out to grip her arm.

"Infants vomit from time to time," the physician says slowly, "So I would not be to worried in that regard. As for the hyperventilation..."

Anger twists in Henry's chest as the man licks his lips, as if trying to find the right words.

"All infants go through their fevers," Balthasar finds his courage again, "But this seems to be a special case. The Princess Margaret was sickly when she was born, as shown by her illness, but now, she is frail to a dangerous extent. We fear her illness has taken its toll on her- it will be miracle if she survives the year, much less makes it to adulthood, and even if she does, her constitution will always be weak."

Catherine slumps against Henry's side, utterly defeated. He himself stares at the physician in disbelief.

His daughter, dead.

Another Tudor child still in the cradle, gone.

Just like Hal, and the rest of Margaret's siblings before her.

"Get out," Henry snarls, "Leave us!"

Balthasar bows and backs away quickly.

_I should have visited sooner. I should not have been cowed by a **child's** illness. I should have acted the part of King and Father both and gotten to know all her little smiles and giggles. I should have held her in my arms as she was ill and comforted her as Catherine did._

Guilt eats away at the King of England. He shoves it aside in favor of sorrow, though the two are still entwined.

_Stillbirths, miscarriages, early deaths. When does it stop? When will I get healthy, strong children at last, and a son to take my place?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, but this is a bit of a filler chapter. I'm trying to build a better update schedule, and now it's summer and I'm out of school, so there should be more consitent updates. This chapter, however short it is, does have some importance to it, so keep an eye out.

To the surprised delight of all of England, the Princess Margaret lives to see her first six months. She does not thrive, in fact her condition has not changed at all, but her heart is still beating, and that seems to be enough for Henry.

Mary Tudor, Princess of England, Duchess of Suffolk and Dowager Queen of France, watches on as her brother carries his daughter through the gardens. Not Margaret, of course- the King worries too much for her health to expose her to the outside world, but her namesake. Mary cocks her head and regards the little one as they stroll.

"It pleases me to see you back at court," Henry's voice snaps her out her thoughts. In his arms his daughter shifts and he casts a smile at her.

"It pleases me to be here, Your Grace," Mary replies.

Henry's demeanor shifts at her words and he hands the little princess off to one of her nannies.

"Walk with me," he commands. Mary's hands curl to fists at his icy tone but she follows him all the same.

She's been expecting this. Henry may have allowed her back in court, but he is still cross by her brazenness at wedding Charles without his permission. It is a blow politically, for he now has one less advantageous marriage to play, but the damage to his pride is what has truly earned his ire.

"Your actions are forgiven, dear sister, but do not think they are forgotten," the King says, "For they are not. I am more than simply your brother, I am your sovereign- your Lord and Master, and you will not undermine me again." He lifts her chin so her eyes meet his and she's taken aback by grim intensity in them.

"I understand, Your Grace. I shall never forget my place again," she chokes the words out.

Henry regards her for a moment and then turns away, picking up his pace. Mary, whose legs are significantly shorter than his, almost runs to keep up with him.

"Where are we going, Your Grace?"

Henry glances over his shoulder.

"The Royal Nursery. It's high time you see your eldest niece."

* * *

How much time has passed since Alejandra left this room? She thinks it was when she puked everywhere. How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Months? Miserably, she realizes she doesn't know. Her new parents have visited her often- now she knows the man from before is her 'father', and the servants dote on her, but as an adult woman inside an infant's body, she's bored out of her mind. And when she's _not_ bored, useless, unhelpful thoughts are running through her head.

_Will I ever get home? How's Jaime doing? What about Mami and Papi? I want to go home. Stupid car; I should've paid more attention; I should've been focused on the road an not my phone._

Alejandra's thoughts are interrupted by the door of her nursery swinging open. Her new father enters, at his side a woman who looks just like him. They have the same wavy auburn hair, the same blue eyes, the same high cheekbones and long noses.

Her new sperm doner strides up to her and lifts her up. Despite the speed of his motions, his hands are gentle and he moves to support her. The woman, Alejandra thinks this is his sister, peers at her through long lashes. As she observes her, her thoughts start to swirl again.

_I'm so fucked. This is Renaissance England. I **think** this is Renaissance England. There's a lot of Henrys and Catherines and Elizabeths, and people harp on about the country, so unless Arthur somehow mannaged to survive, that means my new sperm doner is probably Henry VIII._

"Oh, Henry," the woman gasps, and by her new sperm doner's smile, she hasn't over-stepped, "She's _beautiful_. A wonderful new addition to House Tudor!"

The news doesn't come as a surprise to Alejandra- she's had her suspicions for a while now. But that doesn't stop the blur of panic that strikes her at the thought of having _Henry_ _VIII_ for a father because now the final nail is in the coffin and she's _fucked_.

Alejandra, amidst her panic, does what she swore never to do- she throws a tantrum, not because she needs anything but purely because she's upset, and her sperm donor's sister panics. She stares at her, like she's unsure of what to say or do. Sperm donor looks afraid too- his mouth is open and his eyes are wide as he rocks her gently, whisper-singing soft words of nonsense.

To Alejandra's shock and horror, her sobs begin to lessen and a drowsy fog settles over her mind. A future t _yrant and murderer_ is holding her in his arms and she feels _comforted_ by him. What the fuck.

_Well, he is warm. And he can sing. It's my body's natural reaction, I suppose._

She still feels unsettled.

"Rest, little one," Sperm donor says. Then he sets her back in his bassinett and leaves the room, his sister in tow. 

* * *

"She's a precious thing," Mary smiles. "So delicate, but she's got lungs on her."

"That she does," Henry agrees. "It's a relief, in truth. The lungs of our family prove her strength."

Someting must have bled into his voice when he said that, because his sister takes his hand and squeezes it gently. She says nothing, which he's grateful for. He doesn't need someone else making a promise they can't keep. He doesn't need other liars, like when Hal grew ill.

Henry sighs and rubs at his temples. He pushes back a strand of hair and feels a headache forming between his eyes.

"I'm going to eat," he says, "You can join me, if you like."

Mary hums in acknowledgement and follows him. He snaps his fingers at a page and the boy approaches.

"Get Doctor Balthasar," he commands, "And tell him to see to my daughter, to make certain of her wellbeing."

"As you command, Your Grace."

"Good." Henry turns back to his sister. "Now," he says, "I was thinking of holding a tourney, and I could use your input."

Mary raises an eyebrow,

"Oh, really?"

"Aye. And it will be the best anyone has ever seen. All the people of importance shall attend."

"For what reason, dear brother?"

"To swear fealty to myself and my children, of course," Henry can feel his eyes glinting, "After all, until Catherine delivers my Prince of Wales, Margaret is my heir. And my lack of a son is a very dangerous thing. The great men of my court should not think that a reason to undermine me. It's time to remind them of their places."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try something a bit different with this chapter- it'll be written in third-person past tense whereas all the chapters before it have been written in third-person present. I'll see which one works bests for me.
> 
> Also, holy hell it's been a hot minute since I last updated. This fic is still on the backburner while I work on other projects, but I figured I'd post every once in a while.

_**August 23, 1516** _

Thomas Boleyn, Master of Hever Castle and patriarch of the Boleyn family, was in a good mood. He was in a _very_ good mood. As his family settled in to break their fasts- that was to say his wife, his heir, and his youngest, for his elder daughters were overseas in France- he smiled broadly. Elizabeth returned his look and took his hand in hers.

"You are pleased this morning, my love," she said.

"Aye."

George, who was sitting to his right, stopped making silly faces to get his sister to laugh. "What's going on, Father?" he asked.

Thomas smiled in approval at his curiosity. After taking a sip of wine from his goblet, he said, "The King is holding a tourney late next month, and everyone is welcomed, but I have recieved an _invitation._ "

"How wondeful!" Elizabeth congradulated him. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

"It is no surprise, my dear. I am one of His Grace's prized diplomats and you were a lady-in-waiting to the Queen for years before Lizzie's birth." At the mention of their youngest, his wife's eyes went to her.

Lizzie had been their miracle child, born ten years after George. Her mother had been four-and-thirty, and the pregnancy had been difficult, but both had lived. Thomas had been dissapointed, at first, that he did not have another son, a spare in case something- God forbid- happened to George, but as time went on, she proved herself to be a bright child, and he mannaged to move past his inital frustration. Now she was two, and he loved her well.

"Am I coming with you, Papa?" she asked.

He paused and considered. "Court is hardly the place for a small child," he said, "But apparently the princesses will be there. Well, at least the Princess Mary. Word is that the King worries so much for the health of her twin that he hardly lets anyone see her."

"Does that mean I can go?"

"'Does that mean I _may_ go,'" Elizabeth corrected their daughter gently.

"All of us will attend," Thomas decided. After all, if the King took a liking to George, it would only help him in the future, and if even one of the princesses formed an attatchment to Lizzie, that could only be a good thing.

* * *

**_September 25, 1516_ **

This time of year, between the crippling heat of August and the biting chill of October, was the best weather to be in, Thomas thought personally. Leaves were turning light yellow and red but barely any had fallen yet, and it was still warm enough to work up a sweat, but not enough to have a stroke.

He rode on his horse besides George, whom he was indulging for this last day of travel or so. His wife and youngest travelled in a carriage behind them, and his brother-in-law, the Earl of Surrey, and his party rode a bit ahead of them.

"Are you excited to go to court, boy?" Thomas asked. His son nodded fiercely.

"Yes, Father."

"Good. Now when we see the King, remember what I taught you. You will drop to one knee. Do not look him in the eyes. Take off your hat when you enter the room. After you rise at his beckoning, you may put it back on, but be sure to stay respectful, yes? Keep your gaze fixed along his brow, or his cheek, but still never look him in the eyes." George winced and hunched over. "None of that either, boy."

"Yes, Father."

They were interrupted by a shout ahead of them.

"Master Boleyn," Surrey yelled back, "Catch up, or we'll be waiting all day!"

Thomas' eye twitched. His hands curled to fists around his reigns. As he kicked his heels lightly into the flanks of his mare, he prepared himself to suffer his wife's family once more.

* * *

_**September 26, 1516** _

Greenwich Palace was truly a beautiful site. Build by a riverisde, it was encompassed by lust green fields, and crystal-blue water flowed freely across the land. As their horses trotted forward and they grew closer, Thomas saw his son's eyes widen. He smiled.

"They call it the Palace of Placentia," he said. "The King was born here, as were the Princesses. They were Christened in the church here as well."

Greenwich was large but elegant, with balconies and many different wings. It sprawled out across the hills, with magnificent gates which swung open to announce them. Peasants scrambled about their lives and as Thomas swung out of his saddle, servants rushed to attent to him.

But not before they attended Surrey first.

It was logical, of course- Surrey was the heir to a duke and already an earl, as much as a courtesy title as he may have held, but it still made him burn.

Elizabeth and Lizzie stepped out of their carriage, his daughter stumbling a little. Her mother took her arm. George began moving towards her, but Thomas gripped his shoulder tightly.

"You are not some fool to anwer your sister's beck and call," he hissed. "Do not embarass me."

His son glared at his feet but obeyed.

"There's to be a feast tonight," Surrey said as the made their way inside the palace. "They say the princesses will be presented."

Thomas' eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Both of them?"

"Aye. The King wants his subjects to see both of them, though I suspect the Princess Margaret will be carried away swiftly after she is shown."

"But the Princess Mary will not be? I would assume the King would take them away at the same time if he is presenting them both."

Surrey shrugged. "She is healthy, unlike her twin, and can afford to be exposed to more."

Thomas' eyes went to Lizzie, who was walking beside her mother. He smelled opportunity. Smiling, he said to his wife's brother, "I'll see you there."

Surrey scoffed. "As if you would ever miss it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a pretty weak chapter, I know, and I may end up rewriting it, but hey- I got it out! I'll try not to let another seven months go by, lol, even if my asoiaf fics are my top priority rn.
> 
> Some important things to say: In 'The Tudors,' George Boleyn was done so dirty. He was not actually a rapist. He will not be in this fic. As I'm sure you've noticed, there are already differences between the show and this fic. This is because it has been primarily based off of actual history with bits and pieces of the show sprinked in. You should be able to understand what's going on, though.
> 
> And I bet I surprised ya'll, having a Boleyn-focused chapter (albiet a short one) in a fic about Catherine of Aragon's reincarnated daughter haha.
> 
> Finally, holy shit, the research that's gone into this fic is ridiculous and not at all what I was planning. It's a bitch to have to find out all of Thomas Boleyn's diplomatic missions so the timeline makes sense, when Mary and Anne left for France, and which palace Henry VIII used most. For any history nerds out there, I hope you appreciate the (attempted) accuracy.


End file.
